


Saints and Other Scoundrels

by Sholio



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Banter, F/M, Fluff, Holidays, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 23:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: Adora Belle entertains a late-night visitor and learns a few things about obscure Omnian holidays, at least the Moist Von Lipwig version of said holidays.





	Saints and Other Scoundrels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andrastes_grace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrastes_grace/gifts).



> Set between _Going Postal_ and _Making Money_. Writing this involved looking up what canon had to say about chocolate on the Disc, which turned out to be [highly](https://wiki.lspace.org/mediawiki/Chocolate) [entertaining](https://wiki.lspace.org/mediawiki/Guild_of_Confectioners).

Adora Belle Dearheart lay in bed, smoking, and listening to the faint scritching and skittering sounds on the roof. A tap, there -- the loose roof tile. Ah, that clank would be the chimney pots. 

The faint sounds moved to the wall. She reached out to carefully and quietly place the half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray on her nightstand.

The soft sounds reached the bedroom window. She resisted the urge to prop herself up on an elbow, unsure how visible she would be in the city's light her window let into the bedroom. Lying back on her pillows, she could make out a figure against the dull, somewhat sickly glow of Ankh-Morpork's night sky. There was a series of small, dry pops, the sort of sounds that might be made by a row of mousetraps on the windowsill as they were deftly sprung, one by one. Following this came a small metal cough, as of a window catch being lifted with a penknife, and the window swung open.

"Moist," Adora Belle said in a conversational tone of voice.

There was an unmanly shriek, wild scrabbling, inventive cursing in Überwaldean and a few obscure Borogravian dialects, and then Moist von Lipwig tumbled into her bedroom in a heap.

Silence followed. In that silence, Adora Belle sat up, considered reaching for a dressing gown, and decided not to. The night air through the window was sticky despite the late hour.

"I nearly fell out the window," Moist said, from the floor. "Thanks for that."

"You haven't yet explained why you were in my window in the first place."

"Just a moment, where is the damned -- oh, _bollocks_ , no, don't tell me it's crushed -- wait, what's my elbow in --"

"Mousetrap," Adora Belle said.

"Thought I got 'em all," Moist said, picking himself up. "Interesting thief deterrent, by the way."

"We've a bit of a mouse problem indoors as well." She took a long draw on the cigarette to heat its ember-end and used it to light the candle on the nightstand. The room sprang into dimly lit focus. With interest, she took in Moist's dark-colored and durable-looking clothing, the soot blacking his face, and the slightly squashed package he was clutching in one gloved hand. "There are times, Moist, when I suspect the post office isn't keeping you busy enough. Is that for -- oh, don't move!"

Moist froze with one foot about to step forward, poised in the air. He stared at her, wide-eyed. Adora touched a finger to her lips as there was a brisk tapping on her door.

"Are you all right in there, Adora dear?"

"Quite all right, Mother," Adora said. She pointed at the window. Moist, still frozen in place on one foot, semaphored questions at her with his eyebrows. He pointed at himself. She shook her head.

"It's only, your father thought there might have been a scream," said the disembodied voice on the other side of the door.

"In the alley, Mother," Adora said, taking a drag on her cigarette. She pointed again at the window. Pointedly.

"Are you smoking in there, Adora?"

"No, Mother."

Moist finally got the message and opened the other half of the window. He used the flat (now slightly flatter) box he was holding to fan at the smoke.

There was a rattling at the door. Moist froze again.

"Your door appears to be stuck, Adora."

"I know, Mother. Sometimes the jamb swells in the damp. We can speak to the landlord if I'm unable to open it in the morning." Which was unlikely, once she removed the shims she'd used to seal the crack under the door from the inside.

"Disgraceful! First the mice, now this --"

"In the morning, Mother? I'm quite tired." Adora dropped the smoked-down cigarette end in the ashtray.

"Oh. Yes. Well ... good night, dear."

"Good night, Mother."

She and Moist both listened to the bedroom-slippered footsteps retreat. Moist let out a slow breath and quietly closed the window. By this point Adora was sitting on the foot of the bed, still having dispensed with the dressing gown, which she was pleased to note that Moist had also been pleased to note.

"And what's that?" she asked, nodding to the somewhat-worse-for-wear box in his hands. 

Moist looked down at the box as if he'd forgotten it was there, which, being confronted by Adora Belle in a state of dishabille, he probably had. "Ah, right, this. You haven't by any chance heard of St. Valentus of Omnia, have you?"

"Not in the slightest. Omnia, you say?"

"There's a small branch Omnian sect devoted to him," Moist said. "They have a temple in the Street of Small Gods. Well, it's really more of a barrow, highly portable, in case the Omnian orthodox priests happen to notice it hanging around their end of the street, since they're technically heretics by Omnian standards --" He sensed that her attention was wandering. "-- Anyway, today is his feast day. At least it will be in a couple of hours."

"And that brings you to my bedroom with gifts, why? Have you converted to Omnianism? I might have to throw you out the window if this box is full of pamphlets."

"No, it's a holiday for lovers," Moist said. "You'll have to open the box to see what it's full of."

He was actually, under the soot, blushing. That was interesting. She prodded at his leg with her bare toes. "Come, give it here."

Moist grinned and presented it to her with a flourish.

"What did this St. Valentus do, exactly?" she asked, unlooping the ribbon.

"I expect he was martyred, most likely," Moist said, sitting down on the bed beside her. He was getting soot-smudges on the duvet, but she didn't particularly mind. "That's how you get to be a saint in Omnia, or used to, back in the old days."

"Seems morbid. Is that why the box is shaped like a heart? Commemoration of having his heart impaled on a pike or drawn and quartered by alligators, or what have you?"

She always enjoyed putting that particular look on Moist's face, the one that conveyed clearly that whatever he had expected her to say, it wasn't _that,_ which meant he was both confused and turned on, while his brain scrabbled faster than clackspeed trying to keep up.

"I think it's for the best that you've devoted your life to improving the lives of golems rather than joining the Omnian Quisition," Moist said. "Could you open that any slower, by the way?"

"Why, are you in a hurry?" She could only draw this out so long, though, because she was curious, and, anyway, there were only so many hours until dawn, when she would need to take the shims out from under the door and have breakfast with her parents. She dropped the ribbon in her lap and took the lid off the box.

Moist being Moist, she was genuinely unsure what she was going to find, or even what _category_ the gift might fall into (there was no telling how many other rooftops he'd been up on top of tonight) but somewhat to her relief and perhaps a tiny modicum of disappointment, it seemed to be a perfectly ordinary box of slightly squashed chocolates. Expensive ones, too -- imported, she assumed, by the lack of the distinctive aroma of suet that characterized locally made Ankh-Morporkian chocolates. She selected one with a fondant rose on top and tilted the box in Moist's direction.

He looked vastly relieved. "You do like chocolates, then! I wasn't sure."

"Everyone likes chocolates," Adora said, waggling the box at him. "What I don't understand is what these have to do with martyrdom. Is every third one poisoned?" As the flavor melted on her tongue, she closed her eyes in bliss and added, "Never mind, it's worth it."

She opened her eyes to find Moist watching her eat chocolates with an expression that probably mirrored her own, for slightly different reasons. He was still covered with soot and various other roof detritus best not dwelt upon, but really, she'd known what she was getting into when she hadn't said no (in so many words) to his ridiculous marriage proposal.

Also, she had now learned that having chocolates delivered to her bedchamber in the middle of the night for some absurd Omnian holiday put her in a good mood. It seemed unwise to let Moist know this, but she suspected there was no stuffing that particular golem back down the well.

"Did you make up this holiday?" she asked, selecting another chocolate.

"Of course not. I swear on, uh ..."

"Your grandmother's grave? Your good name?"

"Okay, I see your point," Moist said, and she decided it was best to silence him with a chocolate-flavored kiss.

After all, there were still a few good hours until dawn; she planned to make the most of them.


End file.
